The Sunday Funnies

The brick hit me in the goddamn face again. Of course, I didn’t say goddamn, I said #$%@!, or something like that. That little rat bastard ran away, and the pig with the hard hat said something funny to his friend, I didn’t hear what it was, not that I give a shit. The two of them lifted up off the fucking ground, they were laughing so hard, their fat asses hanging in the air like like hams on a hook.
          My mistake was, I shouldn’t have tried to catch him in a brickyard. These industrial spaces offer too much opportunity for improvised weapons. At least, that was my reasoning the next week, when I went to get him at home.
          I’d spent a lot of money on the blender. State of the art, multi-speed: Low, medium, high, pulse and chop. The plan was, I make my voice high, sound like his girlfriend, yell Help help o he’s got me, things like that, and the little shit zips out of his hole and into the blender I got right there. Then on goes the lid and zap, it’s mouse-puree for my afternoon tea.
          The first part goes okay, he runs out in a panic, I get him in the blender, he’s giving me these little pleading eyes, down on his knees next to the blades, squawking about his poor widowed mother and all that. I let him go on for a while—we’ve been through a lot together, him and me, we got to honor this moment—then I press the button.
          But somehow the little fucker had gotten a string around my tail, and he’d attached it to the blender motor, and the next thing I know I’m smooshed all up into the blender, all out of shape, staring out the glass at him—don’t ask me how he got out of there—and he’s got this fake sad look on his face, an expression like all this was my own fault, and then he jumps on the button and zap, it’s lights-out for your truly.
          So anyway, once I pulled myself together, I resolve to call it quits. I stay out of his way, he can stay out of mine, only it doesn’t work out that way. I steal a pie? Next thing I know I’m smacked in the face with it and I got cinnamon apple shit in my fur for a week. I go hunting chickens? There he is, on a boys’ night out with some angry fucking rooster. I go back to community college to study engineering and he’s my study partner and our first practical assignment balloons out of all proportion, with levers, wheels and gears, a deck of cards and a boxing glove, eighty grapefruit, a pistol, string and scissors and my third cousin Mitsy being woken up by an alarm clock, knocking a bowling ball down a chute and, well, long story short, that’s why I’m in a hospital bed in a full-body cast with a nurse who looks suspiciously like that little fucker in drag.
          But I got plans. Not just for him, I always got a ton of those, though I sense your skepticism. I admit, my track record could be better. But that’s the thing. I haven’t been thinking big enough. He does what he does because he’s a little piss-fuck exhibitionist. You can hardly blame him. But you, you see this and you laugh. Every week you laugh.
          !#$%??@***!!!
          Oh yeah, that’s ****ing funny, Isn’t it? A brick flies through the window, hits the bed release catch, it folds me up like a sandwich, opens again, the cords trip and retract and now I’m hanging upside down from my broken leg? And you laugh? You shit-fuck, you piece of fucking shit, you son of a bitching whore, you sadist, you rat-cunt, you laugh?
          **#$% you, you won’t always be fucking laughing.
🐭